The Meeting Affair
by Svetlanacat
Summary: <html><head></head>Sequel of Missing, and by the way, of A Friend in need and Hindsight... Friendship, trust and courage.  Part TEN</html>
1. Chapter 1

Lost. This time, he had lost him, in the most hopeless way.

One more time.

Poison, bullet, knife, bomb, evil plots… Of course, he had lost him so often.

He had seen him dead, a few months ago. He had stared at a lifeless, cold, body, denying the truth of it. He had touched a lifeless, cold skin, denying the truth of it.

Rightly. The body was a fake.

* * *

><p><em>At the moment, a very alive, ravenous blond Russian was picking up his pasta with a quick twist of the wrist, and wolfing them down. It was fascinating.<em>

_"__Napoleon? You're the one who chose the Vitello al limone. Don't even dare and look at MY pasta!"_

_The words were pure banter, but the gentle tone betrayed the man's concern. Napoleon Solo smiled faintly, hissing._

_"__I am still not sure."_

_Illya Kuryakin looked puzzled._

_"__Not sure? Not sure about what?"_

_The dark haired man peeped around at the calm place. Families, mostly, were taking lunch there. They didn't pay any attention to them._

_"__The Doctor…"_

_A sneaky fork picked up a bit of meat from his plate._

_"__Your Vitello is cooling, my friend…"_

_"__Illya, please! I am serious. I don't understand why the Doctor changed his mind. He didn't tell me anything…" Napoleon Solo forced himself to calm down. "Or what he said wasn't reassuring at all. Then, you turn up at the house, he comes, and suddenly everything is okay. No, Illya, I don't like miracles. I don't believe in miracles."_

* * *

><p>No, no. He didn't mean it. Whoever could do that… his friend needed… both of them needed a miracle. One more miracle. One more time.<p>

Keeping vigil over a wounded partner, over a dying partner, they had done it, believing against the odds, hoping beyond reason that the man lying on the bed would survive, knowing he would, whatever the price. Surviving.

Whatever the price? Napoleon Solo sneered bitterly. They were so presumptuous, believing that the broken man, lying there, would survive, of course, and that he would be back as a field agent, as a partner, as soon as possible. They refused – no, they didn't even think of anything else. How stupid.

* * *

><p><em>The blond man was musing, his blue eyes narrowed with concentration, the fork playing with the forgotten pasta. He pouted, sighed and replied.<em>

_"__Miracles? __Miracles are illogical, irrational. You don't believe in miracle? Neither do I. Since the very first time we met, you saved my life, I saved yours. We've managed to survive, whatever happened, against all the odds" He peeped at the pasta, absent-mindedly before looking again at his partner. "No miracles, never, Napoleon. We survived, we survive because we're well trained, skilled Uncle agents. What we get, we manage to get it." The shadow of an unexpected smile enlightened the serious face. "Our will, Napoleon, our skills, our…" He paused, biting his lips. "Our friendship, and…" He hesitated again. "And your luck."_

_Though he wasn't in the mood for laughing, Napoleon Solo couldn't help smiling, and even chuckling, at the priceless sight. Illya Kuryakin had raised an inquiring eyebrow, frowning immediately, and pursing his lips, though the dark haired man didn't miss the mischievous twinkling in the blue eyes._

_"__That's interesting, my friend. I forgot that strong, logical, rational mind of yours. A miracle is pure chimera, but luck… Luck isn't, of course."_

_The Russian hissed impatiently._

_"__Luck is a serious thing. Luck… Your luck is our ace in the hole. It has been for years, and…" He sighed and plunged the fork in the cooling pasta. "And I have to admit it, luck is a field, one of the very few ones…" He paused again, tasting the pasta and grimacing. Cold. "Perhaps the only one… you outdo me in." He looked terribly serious, now. "Your luck saved my life, Napoleon, so many times." _

_Napoleon Solo smiled faintly._

* * *

><p>His luck? Napoleon Solo was known to be talented, brilliant, and lucky. And numerous other things. The proverbial Napoleon Solo's luck… But at the moment, even if he tried to act like he was calm, confident, he felt scared, powerless. Luck would be no use. They needed a miracle.<p>

* * *

><p><em>The waitress went away, beaming. This charming young blond man's face, when she had served the tiramisu… Napoleon Solo felt amazingly relaxed. The doubts, the dark clouds had blurred into the friendly atmosphere. His partner was studying the creamy cake, savoring the moment. The dark haired man bent forward.<em>

_"__There is a field… one of the very few ones…" He paused, enjoying the moment. The spoon stopped on its way to the Russian's lips. Good. "Perhaps the only one you outdo me in…" _

_He paused again, with a mischievous grin. Illya Kuryakin rolled his eyes, shook his head and tasted the cake, obviously delighted. Delighted? Yes, he was. No matter how, no matter why, Napoleon's troubled, worried, frightened expression had disappeared. Licking the chocolate, he gave up._

_"__Yes, Napoleon?"_

_"__Stubbornness!" The dark haired man was still smiling, but the tone was serious. "Your stubbornness saved my life, Illya. So many times…"_

* * *

><p>His stubbornness? Yes, Illya Kuryakin was known to be talented, brilliant and stubborn. And numerous other things. The proverbial Illya Kuryakin's stubbornness was his last hope, their last hope.<p>

They had met so many enemies, a great band of evil villains, some of them raving mad, some of them awfully clever, some of them… charming. Napoleon Solo quivered unwittingly. For years, they had fought their nasty plots. The enemies, Thrush or not Thrush, were looking for money, power, control of the world, mercilessly. Uncle agents stood in their way, fought them, mercilessly, defeated them, mostly. But during the last year, he realized, they had been battling against something different. The enemy had launched evil attacks upon Uncle itself, in order to destabilize the organisation, to get rid of it, to destroy it. Both of them had been used, as targets, and about himself – the awful thought was craning again – probably as a living booby trap.

Alexander Waverly knew it. He had kept his new CEA out of the field, as discreetly as he could, as often as he could. Vainly.

"Mr Solo?"

The voice gave him a start, in spite of the gentle tone. Alexander Waverly was standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee out to him.

"He'll survive, Mr Solo. The Doctor told you that. He'll survive, and it's something you have to cling to."

Alexander Waverly, the Old Man. Old? Yes, he looked so old, and so unsure.

"You're expendable, young men." In spite of his legendary motto, Alexander Waverly attached great value to his agents' life. All of them, of course, but familiar and heartbreaking images occurred to Napoleon Solo's mind. Illya Kuryakin, standing next to the Old Man, in a very protective attitude. The Russian and the Old Fox, tilting their heads simultaneously. Alexander Waverly putting an almost fatherly hand on Illya's arm. Blue innocent eyes exchanging some devilish knowing looks, mostly about him… Alexander Waverly believing against all the odds in his Russian's faithfulness…

He would survive. Would he really? Was that surviving? Napoleon Solo realised he was having trouble breathing. Forcing himself to calm down, he took the cup and sipped at the coffee.

"Where there is will, there is way. You know…"The Old Man cleared his throat. "You know how stubborn Mr Kuryakin is…"


	2. Chapter 2

"How long have you been here?"

"I want to see him, sir."

Alexander Waverly considered his agent, the drawn features, the shadows under the bloodshot eyes, the ruffled hair. He was exhausted, but the Old Man noticed the creased brow, the clenched jaws, the deep dimples framing the pursed lips. He tapped Napoleon Solo on his shoulder and left the room.

"You should get some rest, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin... He's fine." The Doctor averted his eyes, and cleared his throat. "He's asleep. It won't be any use your being there and..." As he met a cold, icy gaze, he froze. "Of course, if you prefer, you can..." He was pointing at the door.

The bedroom was deserted, all the staff was gone. Illya Kuryakin lay down on the bed, soundly asleep, apparently.

* * *

><p>He was alive. At least, he thought he was. At least, he was able to think. Was he? Yes, probably, he was. First things first, he knew who he was, his name, his job. He remembered faces, names, voices, each of them reviving other memories.<p>

So, he was alive. Eventually he had been trapped. The explosion had erupted, the whole world had collapsed around him, splinters of wood, of metal, shattered glass, flames, smoke. An endless fall. He had known he was about to die, but he hadn't lived through his lifetime again. One more legend.

He forced himself to concentrate. Thinking, eventually, wasn't easy. All he remembered was a feeling of emptiness, of failure, a feeling of incompletion. "He'll be mad at me." A stupid, useless thought, but it was the only one which had occurred to him. He was about to die, and he had thought that Napoleon would be mad at him. No so mad as he had been at himself, though. Then, he had crashed to something hard, dark cold. It had literally swallowed him, taking his breath away. He had felt lost, hopeless, and... dead.

Finally, he was alive. They had captured him, locked him somewhere, drugged, bound. He was alive, alone, powerless. Alone? Powerless? He smiled. At least, he thought he was smiling. "Napoleon's luck and my stubbornness...". Illya Kuryakin thought before he sank into the nothingness.

* * *

><p>"Doctor, Doctor! He smiled. For one second, he was smiling!"<p>

The Doctor went on checking the devices, pushing a button, adjusting the IV, changing doses. Napoleon Solo repeated harshly, more than he intended to.

"He smiled, Doctor. Do you understand? He smiled! He's coming back!"

The man's face was hopelessly sympathetic as he looked at the agent.

"It's a nervous wince, Mr Solo. A contraction. I am sorry, but it doesn't mean anything. I told.."

Napoleon Solo narrowed his eyes, taking two steps forward, cornering the Doctor next to the bed.

"But it could be a sign. You... you have no clue. He smiled. I know him. It wasn't a contraction, a wince, a tensing, whatever you want. He smiled. He's coming back."

The Doctor didn't look like to be impressed. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed mercilessly.

"We've avoided the worst, as I told you. As he's alive, I guess we can say that. But I reckon you remember... Now, if you please, Mr Solo?"

* * *

><p>"We've avoided the worst" Yes, Napoleon Solo remembered. They were in Waverly's office. The Doctor had looked at the Old Man, then at him.<p>

"He's in a very critical state."

Of course, he was. Napoleon Solo had seen him, as he was taken to the Medical. He knew the litany.

"_This is difficult for me to say, but you have to know... You'd better prepare yourself."_

One more time. Napoleon Solo had hold himself ready for anything. And it was a lie, he realized it at the moment. A part of him had believed, as usual, presumptuously, in his own luck, in Illya's stubbornness. The Doctor had gone on.

"We've avoided the worst."

Relief had flooded his mind but the smile had frozen on his lips when he had noticed the man's grim face. They had avoided the worst, as usual, and as usual, his partner would survive. So, what?

"You'd better prepare yourself."

What? What was he saying? The Doctor had desperately peeped at the Old Man. Alexander Waverly had ignored him.

"Mr Solo, as I told Mr Waverly, Mr Kuryakin will survive. It's kind of a miracle, but he will."

Napoleon Solo had hissed impatiently.

"So what?"

'He..." The man had peeped again at Alexander Waverly, vainly. "He... I am sorry. He won't be ... the same. The man he used to be."

The dark haired man had been taken aback.

"Wh...What?"

"The blast, the fall caused critical damages, some of them probably irreparable. He might be unable to walk, to... to use his hands. And..."

Napoleon Solo had hit his fist on the desk.

"And what? What else?"

"He has suffered oxygen deprivation, Mr Solo. His brain..."

The Doctor had looked miserable. Napoleon Solo had just asked, amazingly calm.

"You say... he'll survive?"

Alexander Waverly had bent forward, putting a fatherly hand on his agent's arm.

"He decided to breathe, Mr Solo. To breathe on his own. He could have given up, but he decided to survive."

The Doctor had discreetly shaken his head.

"We've avoided the worst..."

* * *

><p>The Doctor had left the room. Napoleon Solo sat next to the bed, concentrated on his friend's face. He looked like to be asleep. According the Doctor, he was.<p>

Keeping vigil over a wounded partner, over a dying one, they had done it. The dark haired man hesitated. Then he extended a shy hand, combing the locks on Illya's forehead.

"We've each other, Illya. Listen, and remember. Don't you dare leave me. We'll fix it. You'll be fine." He added softly. "We are family, Illya."

Family. Family? Familiar images occurred to him.

"I know a place, Illya. Do you hear me? I know a place. All you have to do is to come back."

* * *

><p>Nothingness.<p>

A blur of noise, a blur of light.

He lived through a strange movie, in slow motion. Things whirling around him, himself twirling round. Soft, smooth things. No more splinters, no more shattered glass.

Illya Kuryakin felt terrified.

He had learned as a kid how to deal with a lot of awful fears. As a young man, in the USSR, as an UNCLE agent, he had improved. Fear was salutary, as long as it didn't prevent you from acting. Fear kept you in reality, it gave you power. Fear of failing, fear of losing someone. Fear of...

Illya Kuryakin was terrified.

He felt safe, absolutely safe, and he was terrified.

He wasn't in a dark and damp Thrush cell. He was in a place in which nothing bad could happen, in which no one could harm him

He was terrified and that was a terror he couldn't fight against.

Once he had been like that, in the Uncle jail, deprived of words, ideas, feelings, hope. He had withdrawn into himself, shutting everything, shutting everyone, shutting himself out his own body, until he had been turned into a barely living, empty shell.

He had defeated terror. He had defeated the enemy.

He was terrified because there was no enemy. He felt safe, desperately safe. He didn't have to loose the restraints, for there were no restraints. He hadn't been drugged. They had just managed to spare him pain. They... His friends. Napoleon. Napoleon wasn't mad at him. He wouldn't have to come to rescue him, because he had, already. Napoleon... Napoleon was there.

Illya Kuryakin felt safe, loved, and he was terrified.

* * *

><p>Illya's skin was strangely cool and dry. He wasn't feverish, he wasn't sweaty, just pale, paler than usual. Napoleon Solo let his fingers run along the cheek, slowly, watching closely the familiar face, looking for another smile. He grabbed gently his friend's chin, and bent over him, whispering.<p>

"I am here, Illya. I am here, and you know I am. All you have to do is to come back. Now. The hell with that Doctor! You'll do well, I swear. I'll call Mikey, Illya. Mikey. And I'll take you to Mousehole."


	3. Chapter 3

"You can't do that. It would be gambling, Alex. Gambling on..."

"I am not gambling. We can't delay the meeting. I am practical-minded. Napoleon Solo will stand up for Mr Kuryakin. It's just putting people's skills to best use." Alexander Waverly paused, scolding at the other man. "What are you muttering?"

"I don't mutter."

"You do, Jules. What's the matter?"

Jules Cutter stood up, sliding his thumbs under his belt. He headed to the window, taking time.

"The matter? It's simple, and you won't like it. Napoleon Solo is unreliable, I mean, untrustworthy."

the Old Man was about to harrumph, but Jules Cutter raced back to the desk and leaned over it.

"I know. The Doctor said that everything was normal. Medical provided confirmation. Nothing bad happened... yet. You can fume, Alex. The truth, is, anyway, that you didn't take him back as your CEA." Alexander Waverly shrugged his shoulders impatiently, but Jules Cutter ignored him." And don't come and tell me you wanted to spare Kuryakin's pride."

Alexander Waverly frowned slightly.

"Illya Kuryakin pestered you to call back Solo. Then he pestered you to restore his friend to his post, and you refused. Why?"

The Old Man smiled faintly.

"Because as you would say Illya Kuryakin proved to be a damned good CEA. I put people's skills to best use."

Jules Cutter had been about to go on arguing, he knew better of it. Alexander Waverly had his Sphinx face. Wasting his breath would be no use. Taking his leave, he went out.

Waverly sighed: Napoleon Solo himself had made his position clear in his chief's office. Jules Cutter had doubts, the young man had the same.

* * *

><p>"He survived. He is alive, and..." The man was hysterically adamant. Forcing himself to calm down, he caste a look at the office. It was deserted. The other kept silent. "And don't expect me to..."<p>

"To finish the job? That's to say to "finish" our Russian friend off?"

The Doctor yelled desperately.

"I won't! You... You can do what you want! I won't."

The snake's voice hissed with a sugary tone.

"Your young wife is a charming lady, and little Leane is a cutie.. You're a lucky man, Doctor." Suddenly the tone turned sharp. "You'll do exactly what you'll be told to do. Is that clear?"

Yes, it was. Yes, he would obey, for he had no choice, for it was too late. He was quivering with shame and terror. The other man was perversely silent, again, enjoying his trouble. Then, he sneered maliciously.

"Some things are better left undone, Doctor. Don't worry. At the moment, Mr Kuryakin's death wouldn't be any use. For the time being, his safety, his comfort will keep his people occupied.

* * *

><p>Illya Kuryakin had survived. One more time. It was a bit infuriating. Corgy didn't believe in miracle, he didn't believe in spell, and, by the way, he didn't undervalue his enemies. Uncle agents were well-trained, efficient, but they weren't magic creatures. The Russian had been lucky. Corgy was rocking backwards and forwards on his chair. Lucky? Was he, really? Illya Kuryakin had survived. At best, he would live as a complete vegetable, as an insane dribbling creature. At worst, as an invalid unable to cope with everyday life. Eventually, wasn't it the most evil revenge? For a few minutes, he toyed with the idea of a smart Thrush card, "With Our Best Wishes For A Speedy Recovery". Waverly would choke with fury.<p>

* * *

><p>"Napoleon!... Napoleon? How are you doing?"<p>

At the sight of the devastated face, Mark Slate felt a sudden pang of anguish, but the words were making sense in Napoleon Solo's mind. He shook his head, forcing a poor smile

"I am fine, and, well, I think Illya.."

He released the grip he had kept on his partners hand. Mark Slate cleared his throat.

"Mr Waverly is expecting you in his office, in two hours."

Expecting? The expression was quite unusual.

"In two hours? Yes, Mark, I'll..."

Mark Slate cut in, waving his forefinger theatrically.

"No, no, Napoleon! Now, you're just going to..." He tapped himself on his temple, as if he were summing up his ideas. "_Comediante"_, Napoleon Solo thought. " ... to shower, to shave, to rest... and to change. Don't even look daggers at me. The Old Man's orders are very clear." Mark Slate came up to the bed. "I'll keep vigil over him for you, Napoleon. He's my friend, too."

As Napoleon Solo didn't react, the young man pursed his lips, frowning.

"It wouldn't be any use your collapsing here. Illya will need us, he'll need you, Napoleon. He'll need your strength, your will...

The dark haired man felt the weight of the past hours, of the past days, of the past years. He felt the weight of his whole life. Suddenly, he felt like he were a very old man, useless, powerless. They were right. He got up, reluctantly, bent over his friend, whispering.

"You can do it, Illya. Remember. Mikey, Mikey and Mousehole. I'll take you there."

The pale face remained impassive.

"Mm mm, Illya, you look fine! At least, you look better than the partner of yours!"

Mark Slate turned to Napoleon Solo, winked at him, and pointed at the door, insistently, until he left the room.

"This guy is really stubborn... Well, Illya, let me tell you about April's last assignment... She'll be mad at me, but I can't resist..."

Stop chattering stupidly, Napoleon Solo thought. Illya didn't like that. Mark Slate went on talking, with a light, somehow reviving tone. Eventually, perhaps, it would help. As he peeped at his own reflection in a glass door, he sighed. Showering, shaving, changing clothes... calling Mikey. Two hours.

* * *

><p>Illya Kuryakin was tossing around At least he thought he was, but he wasn't. He wasn't even able to stir, to open his eyes, to give the importunate talker a scolding. He heard a voice, both familiar and anachronistic. It occurred to him that it was a strange term, nevertheless, what the voice was saying was out of time. He understood the words, but they were uninteresting, idiotic. He had so many things to do.<p>

* * *

><p>Jules Cutter flattened himself against the wall, waiting for Napoleon Solo to leave the area. The young man was obviously exhausted, doubtful, worried.<p>

Cutter had met many talented young men. Young women, too, for April Dancer's sake... He coerced them into achievement, no matter the price. Napoleon Solo had been one of the best agent he had ever trained at the Survival School, until Alexander Waverly had pulled the Russian out of his hat. They had been matching perfectly. As Waverly, Cutter was good at his job, damned good. As Waverly, he was thinking about his succession. Napoleon Solo had caught Waverly's attention, because he was good at managing people, at building consensus, at making decision, at avoiding to offend sensibilities. Jules Cutter's eyes twinkled. As Waverly, Napoleon Solo would need a stimulus, a contradictory, a counterpoise, an indestructible support, an indestructible friendship. Waverly had Cutter. Solo would have... Illya Kuryakin. No. He cursed. In such a disaster, there was no time for daydreams, for regrets. What were the odds on Napoleon Solo getting Waverly's job? What were the odds on Illa Kuryakin ruling the Survival School? Jules Cutter frowned as he was heading to the Russian's bedroom. Who was spouting like that?

* * *

><p>"She had bleached her hair, I told you, you remember? And when she ran through the gas, it turned... green!"<p>

"That's really interesting, Mr. Slate."

The comment sounded ironical, but Jules Cutter nodded approval. He had understood the young agent's purpose.

"If you please, Mr. Slate, I'll stay with Mr Kuryakin for awhile."

Mark Slate slipped away discreetly.

* * *

><p>The room was silent. The talker had gone away. Mark, the talker was Mark Slate. April and her green hair. It was a dream, it could be nothing else. The room was silent and deserted. Illya Kuryakin was trying to remember, a silent, deserted and dusty place. Déjà vu. Not dusty. Not deserted. He heard something, a breath, next to him.<p>

* * *

><p>What could he say to the man who lay there? What promise could he make?<p>

"I don't even know if you can hear me... You have to come back, Illya. Waverly... Waverly needs you."

_Brilliant,_ Jules Cutter thought, _really brilliant_.

* * *

><p>Another voice? Slightly harsh, urging, and familiar. Illya. The voice had called him Illya. The voice was insistently asking him to wake up, to open his eyes. Déjà vu. Illya Kuryakin decided that he wouldn't obey. He wouldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't move. Withdrawing into himself had saved his life in the jail. The man wouldn't fool him.<p>

* * *

><p>Jules Cutter froze. He had been about to give up scolding the young Russian, realizing how useless and unfair it was, but he had just noticed the shadow of a tensing on the pale face.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

"_There is something I can give you, Mr. Kuryakin! Something worth to die for, something simple, so simple; though out of reach for you... Something Uncle denies you..._"

No.

"_You're a traitor, Kuryakin, a repugnant traitor. This man trusted you. He asked for your help, and you shot him in cold blood. You're a traitor and a murderer."_

No.

"_What the hell do you think you're doing?"_

"_Achab!"_

No.

"_Something you've lost a long time ago."_

No.

I can't move.

"Mr. Kuryakin? Illya?"

"_A family, I could give you a family, an ordinary life, safety. You could marry, have children."_

No.

Illya Kuryakin stiffened. All those voices were trying to throw him into a panic. At least, he knew for sure that he was a prisoner. His enemies wanted obviously to drive him mad.

No.

"Green! Her hair turned green!" He remembered this story, Mark's voice about someone's green hair. A girl. April. He remembered Napoleon's voice, Napoleon's hands. But it was a delusion.

Why can't I move?

Strong hands had grabbed his shoulders, and he hoped that they would pull him up, force him to snap out of this nightmare. They were holding him tight, providing him neither with help nor with relief.

A new voice – familiar? - was urging him relentlessly.

"Come on. Wake up, now!"

Was it reality? Was it a new delusion? Was it a scrap of memory from the past? A stocky silhouette stood in front of him, piercing and cold eyes looking him up and down with both suspicion and scorn. A stocky silhouette stood next to him, piercing eyes staring at him, urging him to react, to speak, to trust.

It hurt. The powerful hands were gripping him tighter and tighter.

"Come on, boy! Now!"

The voice was ruthless, the tone harsh. The man was accustomed to be obeyed.

"Sorry. I am sorry..."

The voice was soothing, gentle and grim. It sounded disheartened. The hands had released their grip.

No. Don't do that.

It was a gamble, a tricky one, but he had to take it.

He wasn't Achab any more.

* * *

><p>Jules Cutter felt disheartened, and guilty. He had been about to shake the Russian like a rag doll. A rag doll? Yes, a limp, lifeless body who suddenly stiffened, stirred, tossing and turning, struggling desperately. Cutter rushed at the bed, restraining the blond man.<p>

"Easy, easy! You're back. Take it easy!"

The body fell down, limp again. Cutter choke as his eyes met two blue – a liquid blue – ones, terrified, lost, peering around without focusing on anything.

"Kuryakin? Illya? Look at me!"

The face turned to him hesitantly. At least, he was hearing, at least, he was understanding. Pale parched lips half opened.

"Shhh... I am going to call the Doctor, and see at getting some ice."

_No._

"No."

Was this a "No."? Jules Cutter bent over the night table and pressed the button.

"Do you recognize me? Illya? Hey, keep your eyes open! I won't let you..."

The room was soon full of people. The older man squeezed Illya Kuryakin's hand.

"I am going to announce that to Alexander Waverly, young man."

The parched lips quivered.

"Mr. Cutter, please!"

"Yes, Doctor. Wait, I think he wants to..."

The Doctor sighed.

"Mr. Cutter, we have to..."

The frowning Cutter didn't impress him.

"Mr. Kuryakin needs..."

Jules Cutter shrugged his shoulders, bending over the Russian.

"Illya? "

Cutter. Jules Cutter. So he was free. He was at home. They would take care of him. The parched lips whispered a word. A name. Jules Cutter nodded reassuringly.

"Mr. Cutter! Get out immediately!"

* * *

><p>Relationship between an Uncle agent and his superior was simple, eventually, based on mutual respect, mutual trust, mutual regard, and... obedience. Alexander Waverly dealt with all the external factors, gave assignments, consulted, listened, decided.<p>

The Old Man was Napoleon Solo's superior, and he was far more than that. It wasn't fondness, it wasn't affection, of course. Shameful, unwarranted feelings.

He had left Alexander Waverly with scarcely concealed anger, heading to their office in order to calm down. The Old Man had been intractable, inscrutable, cutting him short, not even harshly. Napoleon Solo had tried...

_"You can't do that, sir. It would be gambling..."_

_Bushy eyebrows had hidden the blue eyes for a few seconds._

_"I am not a gambler, Mr. Solo. It isn't a gamble, nor a calculated risk. You'll stand in for... Illya."_

He hadn't added "Period.". Useless. No argument.

"You'll stand in for ... Illya." Waverly was sneaky, awfully sneaky. Napoleon Solo had to take over from the CEA, because he was qualified. Because he owed his friend that. Because giving up would be – Solo banged his fist on the desk – a desertion.

"... stand in for... Illya."

* * *

><p>The fisherman leaned over the planking of the Janice III, thoughtfully. The lake, the sky the forest were beautiful, playing with the whole range of colors, from the darkest blue, green, violet, to the lightest ones. It was a peaceful place.<p>

Yes, Mousehole was a safe harbor. Napoleon was right. Illya was alive, he'd survive. Napoleon's words had been optimistic, desperately optimistic. Mikey bit his lips. He didn't like it, though he could hardly say what he didn't like. The feeling was unpleasant.

Illya would need time, support, calm, but he'd be fine. The dark haired man's tone of conviction had been eagerly insistent.

"He needs you, Mikey. You're... you're his family."

Of course, he was. He remembered the young blond, pale man walking down the path, slowly, his jaws clenched, waiting – he had realized it later – for bullets to kill him.


	5. Chapter 5

Jules Cutter had immediately reported to a both puzzled and relieved Waverly. Then, he looked for Napoleon Solo in his office. The man was leafing through a file absentmindedly and peeped at him mechanically.

"Solo... Illya Kuryakin is back. He woke up a few minutes ago and..."

He paused... Nothing. He didn't expect that. The old Napoleon would have leaped from his chair, raced towards Medical. No one could have prevented him from seeing his friend. Wrong, Cutter thought. The old Solo would have been stuck by his partner, at the moment.

Instead of which the dark haired man sighed faintly and gave him the ghost of a smile.

"I guess that Doctor and nurses are looking after him."

_That never stopped you trying_... Cutter nodded, taken aback, but the other lost in thought paid no attention to him. He cleared his throat.

"He's extremely weak, of course, but, well, he did recognize me."

Napoleon Solo kept a faraway look which made Cutter uncomfortable but he insisted.

"I think he'll do well, with time."

The ghost of a smile, again, which faded instantaneously. Solo got up calmly.

"I must talk to Mr. Waverly."

"I told him, Solo, he knows..."

The other man ignored him, heading to the corridor. Cutter took hold of his arm as he went out.

"Damned, Solo! He asked for you!"

"Oh."

No surprise, just evidence. Napoleon Solo got free politely.

"I have to talk to Mr. Waverly."

"He told your name, Solo. You..."

He talked to a brick wall... Cursing, he followed the agent.

* * *

><p>"You know the place, Mr. Solo. You know the Doctor. Mr. Kuryakin will be..." Alexander Waverly hesitated, considering his agent's inscrutable face. "It's the best. They'll take care of him, see at his safety and..."<p>

"No."

"No?"

Jules Cutter leaned back against his chair giving Napoleon Solo credit for his self-assurance, but Waverly's tone betrayed his lack of understanding. The Old Man was frowning, probably on the edge of harrumphing. The dark haired man didn't look like to be impressed, to say the least, nor defiant. He didn't confront his superior. He had stated his opinion. "No." Period.

"Mr. Solo..."

Napoleon Solo stood upright, bent over the round table, laying his hands flat on it and he repeated flatly.

"No." Then, he went on, hammering out his words. "As soon as possible, I'll take Illya to Mousehole, at Mikey's home."

Waverly kept silent for awhile. The pipe strategy... Jules Cutter could have predicted it. The Old Man checked the pipe, filled it carefully, with no indication as to whether he had paid attention to his agent's words.

"Sit down, Mr. Solo."

Solo hesitated. Waverly raised an inquiring eyebrow, pointing his pipe at the chair.

"It's an attractive idea, Mr. Solo."

But... Because there was a "but". The dark haired man sat down, keeping his eyes in Waverly's. There was a "but". He knew about the "but": safety, medical cares...

"Of course..." Waverly paused to light the pipe and took a puff at it. The pipe strategy... "Of course, we could make the place safe, and see at the medical cares."

But...? The Old Man's face showed concern.

"Mousehole is quite far from New York, Mr. Solo. You... It wouldn't be easy for you..."

Alexander Waverly searched for words. Apparently. Of course, he didn't. It didn't fool Jules Cutter, not Napoleon Solo.

"I mean... Mr. Kuryakin will need his friends. He'll need you. Mousehole is..."

Napoleon Solo raised his hand.

"You..." The dark haired man paused, offering a grim smile. "You want me to organize the meeting, sir. I'll have very few spare time. Your ... clinic is a calm, peaceful place. A cold one. The Doctor, the nurses are efficient. They're nice. They're... boring..."

"And?"

_I don't trust them..._ But he couldn't say that. "That's all, sir. Mikey will take care of him."

Alexander Waverly played with his pipe, almost absentmindedly.

"So, Jules, what do you think?"

_Oh, thank you, sneaky old fox_... Mousehole... Mikey... Jules Cutter kept memories of his first meeting the fisherman, determined to fight in order to protect his "protégé", a young man he knew for a few hours, a man who had just been released from jail... He took a deep breath.

"The clinic is safer..."

Napoleon Solo stiffened imperceptibly.

"Mikey..." Cutter sighed. "Mikey is family."

Alexander Waverly rested his chin on his palm, thoughtful.

"Well... we'll ask Mr. Kuryakin about what he wishes."

* * *

><p>The thought of death had made him feel both bitter and almost hopeful. Hopeful, as he had realized that for days, months, years, he'd be a limp, powerless body, a vegetable unable to survive on his own, unable to communicate, and desperately aware of his condition. Bitter because of all he'd leave unsaid and undone. Just too bad.<p>

Nothingness.

He had been terrified.

Chaos.

Gentle words, harsh tone, voices comforting, begging, scolding, yelling...

Hands squeezing his wrist, grabbing him roughly, shaking him up and down, dragging him mercilessly into life...

He was alive, back in Medical.

People were fussing over him, doctors nurses. They were encouraging and reassuring. Everything was okay. He was doing well. He would be fine.

"Oh, and... Do you remember your name? Who is your partner? Where are we? Can you move that finger? Do you feel this?"

Perfectly reassuring. They pricked, poked, pushed, pulled him relentlessly.

"My name is Illya Kuryakin. My partner is Napoleon Solo." _Where the hell was he, by the_ _way?_ " We are in the Uncle HQ, in New York. Yes, I can move it. Ouch!"

"You're doing well, Mr. Kuryakin. Oh, and, who is Mr. Waverly? Can you squeeze my hand? Do you feel this?..."

_Napoleon_... Ouch! _Please._..

He was alive and exhausted.

And happy.

* * *

><p>The Doctor pointed at the chairs in the corridor.<p>

"Don't ask me why, how, I couldn't tell you. Illya Kuryakin will pull through. Of course, he'll need some rest, some physical therapy, but he's fine. Really." He looked at each of them. " I mean... in one month, I'll qualify him for light duty. And then..." The man smiled.

"He's awake and you can go, now. Just one thing... He's slightly grumpy."

Napoleon Solo chuckled with delight. Something had just been torn to pieces, something like a heavy curtain, or a fog which had kept him cut off from reality for days, weeks. Everything got back in its place, for the first time since he had left the clinic.

Illya was alive. He was doing well. He was grumpy... and probably hungry...

"Grumpy? So, by the way, he's fine. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much."

The man raised his hands.

"Mr. Kuryakin survived despite the blast, the falling, the drowning... He... Well, that's luck, Mr. Solo. First of all, that's luck."

"And stubbornness..."

Alexander Waverly peeped at his agent with amazement. He had been put under a great strain for weeks, and suddenly... Suddenly he was back to his old self.

* * *

><p>"He regained consciousness, and you have to know that he... He's fine." He paused for a second, breathless. " And... I won't do anything!"<p>

"Ts ts ts, Doctor... You'll do exactly what you'll be told to do...'


	6. Chapter 6

The blond man had been freed from most of the tubes and IV. He rested peacefully, apparently asleep. He looked fine... Napoleon Solo smiled at the familiar scene and stepped on tip toe.

"Time to show yourself..."

The words had been hissed softly. Napoleon sighed loudly, sitting down next to the bed.

"The Doctor was right: grumpy and grousing... Welcome back, partner mine."

Yes. Things came back to normal. Doubts and darkness faded. Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes. The smiles they exchanged belied the ironical banter.

"It was a close call, my friend."

Napoleon Solo brushed aside some disheveled locks, a familiar gesture which the Russian wouldn't have put up with, had anyone else tried it. Though, of course, he pursed disapproving lips at the dark haired man's boldness.

"You'll be held to account for that, Napoleon..."

"Just what I said: grumpy and grousing..."

Unexpectedly Illya Kuryakin refrained from going on bantering. He felt comfortable, slightly light-headed, delighted and it wasn't only due to the painkillers. The man who was sitting next to him was Napoleon Solo. THE Napoleon Solo he knew for years, hazel eyes twinkling with relief and pleasure, a bright smile enlightening his face, encouraging, promising, teasing... Napoleon Solo. His partner, his friend. Not the unsure, uncertain, hesitating man he had seen for weeks.

"Illya?"

"You're right. It was a close call..."

His friend grabbed the hand he held to him.

"The Doctor told you'd be back to light duty in a few months, and..."

The Russian gasped.

"Light duty in **one** month! And then... Don't try, he told me, too!"

Napoleon Solo squeezed the hand, chuckling.

"Because you were about to riot, as usual..."

As expected, the Offended Innocent rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p>His wife's and his children's life were at stakes in the game and he knew it. It wasn't an idle threat. He was already a traitor. Would he turn into a murderer, renouncing his most sacred principles? Would he manage to kill the Russian? He could undoubtedly. He'd be beyond suspicion and it would be easy, probably...<p>

"You're restive, Doctor, and you don't pay attention. At the moment, we want you to keep your eyes open. At best, Waverly will ask you to take Kuryakin in your clinic."

"Please, no..."

"Ts ts ts... You'll take care of him. You'll put all your energy into ... helping him. Peace, calm, serenity. As long as possible, Doctor. The longer... the better."

He couldn't help sighing with relief, but the man added:

" Though, if required..."

The sardonic tone caused him to shiver. If required... He cleared his throat.

"What if Mr. Waverly had another plan? He..."

The other was obviously aggravated.

"Ts ts ts... You helped his top agent out of a tight spot, didn't you? In your interest, that's to say, of course, in your family's and in Kuryakin's interest, let's hope Waverly will trust you with the Russian's life..."

* * *

><p>"No, Jules."<p>

Jules Cutter almost choked with surprise. Alexander Waverly sneered and went on, waving his pipe.

"We can't delay the Meeting. We won't. Since the Doctor told us about Illya Kuryakin, you started to plan about it. No."

* * *

><p>Napoleon Solo turned serious.<p>

"We worried a lot about you, you know? I... I was terrified."

"Terrified?"

The tone wasn't amazed, nor even incredulous. Illya Kuryakin had experienced the feeling.

"Your car exploded. You fell off the bridge in the river and almost drowned yourself. Your surviving was kind of a miracle. Illya?"

The Russian was lost in thought, his face suddenly strained. Napoleon Solo felt a twinge of remorse.

"Oh, you're tired, my friend. You need some rest. I am sorry. Take a nap, and..."

Illya Kuryakin shook his head.

"No, no, Napoleon. I am fine. Really fine."

As usual, Napoleon thought.

"I tried to remember... I was on the bridge... Did the blast hurt anyone else? Did it killed... someone?"

"No, Illya. Mmmm... except for the car. You ..." Napoleon Solo paused, staring at his partner. "You survived..."

He squeezed again the hand he held tight.

"You were virtually unharmed, except for some bruises, scratches, burns... But you had got a nasty bang and stayed a long time in the water. The Doctor thought..."

The words died on his lips.

"He thought I would probably survive as a ... vegetable."

Illya Kuryakin's smile looked rather bleak.

"But you aren't, Illya. You aren't."

"Yes, I am fine."

He closed his eyes.

"I was terrified, too, Napoleon."

It was an amazing and very unusual admission.

"I thought I was dead, first. Later, I realized that I was alive, probably drugged in a Thrush cell and I knew you'd come for me. Déjà vu... Then, eventually... I heard voices. I didn't recognize them, but they were familiar and words were kind." He opened his eyes. "I couldn't speak, Napoleon. I couldn't reply. I couldn't move. I was truly a powerless vegetable, powerless and absolutely conscious. I was at home and... terrified. I wished I could... But voices were still there, talking to me, urging..."

He stopped.

"Illya..."

The blue eyes looked at him.

"Napoleon...?"

"Yes?"

The Russian peeped around and whispered.

"Does ... Does April have... green hair, really?"

"You remember that... "

"So?"

The dark-haired man chukled.

"Yes, for a few hours... But don't tell anything, Mark would have to pay for that..."

"Jules Cutter..."

"Yes, he was with you when you got back to consciousness."

"I know."

And I wasn't, Napoleon Solo thought. He had wasted time in going over and over useless ideas in his mind, leaving his friend alone.

"Napoleon?"

Illya Kuryakin felt delightedly dozy, suddenly, but he wanted to know.

"You told me something."


	7. Chapter 7

Alexander Waverly was undecided, and, so to speak, he didn't like it. The clinic was a logical choice. Its safety, its medical disposal and its nearness were obvious assets. On the contrary, Mousehole would be source of countless difficulties.

But the Head Doctor he had just talked with didn't help, though.

"_He needs rest, sir, in a place where he'll be comfortable, with people he'll trust..."_The Doctor had sighed. _"We know, all of us, sir, what Mr. Kuryakin thinks of Medical, Doctors... and clinics"_

But Jules Cuter had hissed: "_Mikey is family_."

But Napoleon Solo mistrusted the clinic and its Doctor. He deluded the subject, but Waverly knew his agent.

He pushed the door and stopped silently to observe the familiar scene: an agent keeping vigil over his partner, talking to him, determined to stay, whatever the nurses, the Doctor, perhaps Waverly himself would have to object to it...

"You told me something..."

The Russian's eyes peeped over his friend's shoulder.

"Sir..."

Napoleon Solo stood upright immediately, but Waverly stepped forward, gesturing him to sit down.

"You had us worried, Mr. Kuryakin."

The dark-haired man gave a slight smile. It wasn't uncharacteristic for the Old Man to inquire about an agent's health, to express concern about him. The tone was just warmer... Alexander Waverly had kind of a soft spot for Illya...

"It was a close call, sir." And the Russian added immediately: " But I am fine!"

"Of course you are. I can see that."

Pale, some dark shadows remaining under his eyes... Yes, Illya Kuryakin was ... fine. Waverly pointed his pipe at him;

"I expect you back as soon as possible, Mr. Kuryakin." The pipe slipped towards Napoleon Solo. "I asked Mr. Solo to stand in for you concerning the meeting."

The pipe came back to the blond man.

"I talked with the Doctor. He told me that he would probably qualify you for light duty..."

"In one month, sir, at the very most!"

Napoleon Solo tried again to hide a grin. Alexander Waverly pursed his lips, shaking his head, but his eyes twinkled with amusement, too. Déjà vu...

"We'll see about the "_at the very most_", young man. According to the Doctor, basically, you need rest – I mean, real rest...- and some light physical therapy." The blue eyes and the miserable face wouldn't fool him. "There is no point in arguing about that."

He paused, staring at the two men. Good.

"I intended to send you to Mr. Solo's clinic."

Said Solo gasped: _Mr. Solo's_ clinic?

"But your partner disagrees." The pipe slipped again towards the dark haired man. "Mr. Solo?"

A soft voice stated calmly.

"Mousehole... Napoleon thinks I should... go to Mousehole, at Mikey's home..."

The pipe hesitated. Illya Kuryakin repeated.

"Mousehole... and Mikey. I remember. ...You told me about that, Napoleon... I heard you."

He leaned back against the pillow closing his eyes lids.

"Illya?"

"The blond man answered, keeping his eyes closed.

"I'm fine..."

Alexander Waverly frowned.

"You aren't fine, young man! You're exhausted. We'll talk about this later. At the moment, you're going to take some sleep."

_Had he any choice? Had he really? He felt tired. It wasn't unpleasant, though._ He forced himself to look at the Old Man.

"Sir..."

"Mr. Kuryakin, I told you..."

"I... I would... Mousehole..."

Bushy eyebrows hid the pale blue eyes for awhile.

"We'll see at this. Would you mind, now, just obeying orders? Mr. Solo?" He motioned the agent to follow him.

The Russian looked like to have fallen asleep.

_He could smell a delicious scent which he recognized immediately. Mikey's coffee He could feel the breeze swaying gently the curtains. Mousehole..._

Napoleon Solo peeped again at his friend before going out.

Alexander Waver tapped him on his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Mr. Solo He's fine. Remember. The Doctor told you! Mr. Kuryakin is doing well. Why? How? We don't know, but he is doing well."

" He was, but... suddenly..."

"I talked with the Head Doctor, Mr. Solo. We thought that Mr. Kuryakin was unconscious, in a coma. Most of the time, though, he was fully awake. Being locked in oneself, struggling vainly to escape, that's exhausting." Waverly paused a few seconds, resting his hand on his agent's arm. "He'll do well. Let's go, now. We've to see at some details about the meeting... and Mousehole."

* * *

><p>"I want you to arrange something as soon as possible"<p>

The two men peeped sheepishly at each other, anxious to content their chief after their pitiful failure.

"I want you to make an attempt at killing Solo."

They stood, taken aback, their mouths wide-open until one of them managed to articulate.

"But..."

The other sighed impatiently.

"Can't you make out what I say? An attempt at killing Solo, whatever the way."

"But... Not Solo? ... You mean... Kuryakin?"

The older man shook his head with a scornful consternation.

"Solo. I mean... Solo."

"But... you asked us to get rid of the Russian, because you wanted Solo..."

The Thrush executive sneered maliciously.

"Oh... Shortsighted cretin... I want you to make an attempt. A.T.T.E.M.P.T. Nothing more than an attempt." He paused, narrowing his eyes in an icy look. "You're good... at attempting, aren't you?"

The two men at a loss thought better of replying and waited.

"As I expected, Waverly asked Solo to take over the job from Kuryakin." He bent over the table. "Waverly is an old crafty fox, though. He could have doubts. Solo will narrowly escape death, as if by a miracle. He will escape.. unharmed, of course." His smile froze the two men. "Worries will be dispelled." He stared at them. "And... you failed to kill Kuryakin, let's hope you won't fail to miss Solo..."

* * *

><p>Napoleon Solo hissed a long bored sigh. Thanks to the Uncle impressive means of communication the Chiefs of every Uncle HQ could talk, discuss, argue, decide. Everyday, every night.<p>

But... No. They wanted to meet on a regular basis. They wanted to get together. Why the hell, he couldn't say. Meetings meant trouble, worries, restless nights and risks, useless risks. The legendary Summit Five Affair could seem kind of a caricature. It had been one. It could at least have taught them a lesson. But... NO.

Trouble, worries, restless nights...

Icing on the cake, this meeting would take place in the US. Alexander Waverly the Chief of the Northwestern Uncle, had made himself clear. The meeting would be perfect. No unexpected incident, no unforeseen events.

Of course, the Section 2, number 1, the CEA would be the man in charge  
>Illya.<p>

At the moment, himself.

He had to call Mikey but before, he'd go back to his friend's bedroom.

* * *

><p>Alexander Waverly stared at the painting in front of him absent-absentmindedly. Illya Kuryakin's plan was elaborate and brilliant. He had suggested different suitable locations, different places, all of them perfectly fit out, secured, comfortable. People were preparing, setting up things in strict secrecy. Each of them believed for sure that the meeting would take place there...<p>

Clever. Brilliant.

Waverly sighed. There was no more Harry Beldon among Uncle executive directors – he crossed mentally his fingers – but they couldn't be lulled in a false sense of security.

Alexander Waverly felt still unsure, and he still didn't like it.

The attempt made on Illya Kuryakin's life wasn't only a glorious feat. Thrush wouldn't waste time and energy without strong motive, and this meeting was one.

Napoleon Solo had got the better of the villains' conditioning. His partner out of the fight, he could take over him. Thrush's plan failed.

Did it?

Things fitted together perfectly. Too perfectly, Jules Cutter thought and stated clearly. Too perfectly, Napoleon Solo himself thought, obviously.

The Old Man played with his pipe mechanically. Too perfectly?

As Napoleon Solo was back, he hadn't asked him to work again as his CEA.

Because Illya Kuryakin was doing extremely well.

Because it would have been pretty unfair though Illya Kuryakin himself had pestered him to do it...

Then, the Russian had been put out of the fight. Napoleon Solo was the logical choice, undoubtedly.


	8. Chapter 8

For the last two years, their enemies had often taken his top agents as "favored" targets, through malicious and evil plots, again and again. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had missed death by a hairbreadth. Eventually they had defeated the villains, again and again, because they were efficient, brilliant, lucky, stubborn. Too efficient, too brilliant, too lucky, too stubborn...

They were at the moment the ones the enemy wanted to get rid of. It wasn't unusual, unfortunately. After the meeting he would have to talk with them about future.

Alexander Waverly sighed.

Everything would be fine.

* * *

><p>"Shouldn't you be at work, Napoleon?"<p>

The dark haired man looked at his friend at the moment fully awake and chuckled at the frowning face.

"I'm working, Mr. Kuryakin! I'm actually making my way through the twists and turns of this devilish plan of yours..." He pointed at the file he hold. "Amazing, and brilliant, Illya. Several locations among which you'll make the final choice..."

The Russian shook his head.

'No, I won't. You will, Napoleon. With Mr. Waverly." The blue eyes were staring at him insistently. "And you won't tell anyone about it. Ideally, Mr. Waverly should be the only one to know."

Napoleon Solo grimaced a smile.

"Ideally, Mr Waverly's colleagues should stay where they belong..."

Harry Beldon's sneering ghost crossed the room. Illya Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders.

"Pious hope, my friend..."

Napoleon put the file aside and considered his partner, catching a glimpse of various dressings under the pajama top. He hadn't missed the ghost of a grimace his friend had let out. Illya hissed defiantly.

"I'm fine!"

The dark haired man gave a theatrical dubious pout which unexpectedly didn't cause Illya to protest. The Russian just stated softly.

"It took you a long time..."

"A long time?"

"You're back to your old... insufferable self. At last."

Napoleon smiled. Yes, he was.

"About Mousehole, Napoleon..." Illya Kuryakin hesitated. "It would be complicated, wouldn't it?"

"What the hell are you babbling, now?"

He was puzzled, but the Russian stiffened slightly.

"The clinic... Your clinic is the most judicious choice. Mr. Waverly is right. Mousehole would be so much trouble..."

Napoleon Solo frowned.

"I'll see at everything, Illya, and..."

"It's risky. Thrush..."

He cut in, resting his hands on the bed.

"First, agent Kuryakin, I didn't intend to proclaim it from the rooftops. Thrush wouldn't look for you in such an exposed place. Then..." He paused, bending forward, and whispered mischievously. "You hate clinics, partner mine. I know this one, and you'd try to blast it at the end of your first day there. Lastly..." He sat upright, observing the blond man with his most defiant, self-confident face. "Lastly, you'd have to explain Mikey about that. He's waiting for you."

"Mr. Waverly... He..."

"The Old Man agrees, Illya."

* * *

><p>They hadn't a clue concerning the meeting, not that they couldn't collect some information, but because they didn't need to. All they have to do was to outsmart Uncle agents. Eliminating Kuryakin was a determining factor. They had failed to kill him, unfortunately, but Napoleon Solo was at the moment back to his old status as the New York Uncle HQ C.E.A., in charge of the organization of the meeting.<p>

* * *

><p>The man stiffened as he recognized the voice..<p>

"Mr. Kuryakin will be taken at the clinic as soon as possible, Doctor."

He suppressed a sigh, both relieved and terrified. The enemy's plan worked perfectly well.

"Doctor?"

He cleared his throat.

"Yes, sir. I... Of course, we'll be happy to help Mr. Kuryakin. I can assure you, he'll do well."

"I trust you." Alexander Waverly's voice sounded slightly distant, The voice of a man who was already looking over something else. "We owe you Mr. Solo's quick recovery, and you've to know that he recommended you. Though..." He paused. "You have other patients, I guess?"

"Yes, sir. Two agents who..."

"We'll see at taking them somewhere else, Doctor. Illya Kuryakin will be your only patient. We must be careful."

Careful...


	9. Chapter 9

So the die was cast. He smiled grimly. Everything was going according to the villains' plan. "To our plan", he corrected. He was part of it, not of his own free will, but he was. He had a family.

The Doctor was staring at the phone as if it were a venomous spider.

* * *

><p>The physiotherapy session was tedious, repetitive and frustrating. Illya Kuryakin knew for sure that he was able to get up and walk on his own, but the therapist had chuckled, holding him back gently though firmly. "Each thing in its proper time, Mr. Kuryakin.". The special "Freezing Ice Blue" gaze had been no use.<p>

The man checked relentlessly whether his patient had control over every inch of his body.

Every inch of his body hurt. He had been pulled, stretched, tossed and turned.

Every inch of his body protested but obeyed.

He leaned back against the pillow with delight. He was exhausted. The therapist chuckled again.

"Here we are, Mr. Kuryakin.".

An inviting hand was cheerfully held to him.

"Now, you'll sit upright. Yes. Like that. Slowly otherwise you'll feel dizzy."

Slowly or not, he felt dizzy but thanks to both his pride and the man's strong hand, he managed to keep a satisfying balance.

"Take all the time you need. Tomorrow you'll get up and take some steps."

The voice was cheerful, but the man's smile faded as the "Freezing Ice Blue" eyes looked daggers, again.

"Right now, not tomorrow."

The man was obviously embarrassed.

"It's... I... It wouldn't work well..."

Illya Kuryakin's eyes narrowed.

"What the hell..."

"Have a fight, boys?"

Napoleon Solo stood at the entrance, enjoying himself. A disheveled fuming Illya, sitting on his cot, quite cute in his blue pajamas, defying the tall and hefty therapist. This was worth the sight.

The man looked at him and smiled. A very strange smile, kind of a cattle breeder's one.

"It would be fine... Mr. Solo, if you please? Perhaps you could help Mr. Kuryakin to stand upright? I... Well, as you see, I'm too... He's... It wouldn't be very easy."

The "Freezing" gaze turned to the "Disintegrating" one, and Napoleon Solo decided to save the therapist's life. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and came up to the bed.

"May I have the next dance, partner mine?"

For a second, the Russian was all of a tremble. He was up, though, and things wouldn't be so bad, would the walls stop whirling around. His friend had got a firm hold on him. Illya Kuryakin took a careful step forward.

* * *

><p>The fisherman stood on the terrace, sipping his cup of coffee. This was his home, the place he belonged. His son had pestered him to come with tho em in Italy. Mousehole was his. He never felt lonesome. Anyway, shortly, he wouldn't be. His "nephew from England" would there soon, in order to recover from a car crash. The wind was rising, dispelling the clouds. It would be a nice day.<p>

* * *

><p>He tried to calm himself, vainly. Kuryakin would be soon there, in his so peaceful, so safe clinic. He could call Waverly and tell him. The photo on his desk made himself see reason. He hadn't any choice.<p>

* * *

><p>The blond man had settled himself into a comfy armchair. The few steps he had taken had left him exhausted but the satisfaction was worth the effort... His own, of course, and Napoleon's. The therapist had given him the thumbs up and left the room. Illya Kuryakin felt pleasingly giddy at the moment. Alexander Waverly stared at his agent with a disapproving face which didn't impress the Russian.<p>

"I'm glad to see you show great improvement, Mr. Kuryakin. So, I think that in order to help you to recover..." He bent forward. " We'll see at taking you to our clinic as soon as possible."

Waverly admired silently the young man's composure. His face didn't betray any feeling. Napoleon Solo had clenched his jaws but remained silent.

"As soon as possible..." the Old Man stopped, peeking at his watch. "No, I'm mistaking, Mr Kuryakin. Just now, at this very moment, young man, you're arriving at the clinic."His self satisfied Cheshire cat got a smile from Napoleon Solo and a frowning from his partner.

* * *

><p>The clinic was buzzing with activity: medical staff and section 3 agents were dancing an amazing ballet around its precious patient. The Doctor gave way to two charming nurses who headed towards Illya Kuryakin's bedroom. The ambulance had stopped in front of the entrance, and the Uncle agent had been taken into the clinic very quickly. The Doctor had been first kept away from this bustle. Later, a very polite section 3 agent had motioned him to enter the bedroom.<p>

The first thing he noticed was a blond wig on the table.


	10. Chapter 10

"It's a wonderful place..."

Illya Kuryakin closed his eyes enjoying the familiar breeze which brushed his face. The fisherman smiled. He remembered the blond young man soundly asleep on the ropes and the old blankets, on the Janice 3.

"The boys wanted me to join them in Roma. They said that I'd be with them, that I could visit extraordinary places..."

The Russian indulged in a half smile as he imagined the fisherman from Mousehole drinking an espresso at a terrace cafe, piazza Navona or in front of the Pantheon.

"They're right. Roma is a beautiful town, Mikey..."

"My life is here. I'm under Mousehole's spell."

Illya opened his eyes and took hold of his cup of coffee. The fisherman peeked at him.

"And so are you..."

"Yes. Yes, I think I'm."

Mikey frowned. He knew too well those thoughtful eyes and this elusive tone.

"Are you again in your Achab mood?"

Illya smiled faintly.

"No. No, Mikey. I'm fine."

The fisherman let slip an ironic chuckle. His "nephew" wouldn't fool him.

"Illya?"

The Russian sighed.

"You'd rather much be in New York with Napoleon, wouldn't you?"

"Did he tell you about what happened? I mean..."

Mikey hesitated. Napoleon Solo did tell him about the assassination attempt against Illya and about his urging need for a safe refuge. The day before, the fisherman had picked up his "nephew" at the small airport next Charon Pass and he had taken him back home. As expected, Illya had looked daggers at the poor man who pulled a wheelchair for him, grabbing impatiently his walking stick.

"Mikey...?"

The fisherman shook his head. "Not really. He told about you. He worried a lot, Illya."

Illya Kuryakin struggled to his feet leaning on the fisherman's shoulder. "Let's have a walk towards the lake. It's a long story."

* * *

><p>"I'm fine, sir. Really I'm!"<p>

Alexander Waverly rolled his eyes at the so well known line. Illya Kuryakin mastered it perfectly and his partner was obviously trying to match him. The nurse fixed the dressing on the dark-haired man's forehead taking the given opportunity to caress his cheek a bit more longer than necessary, causing Waverly to sniff disapprovingly. The young woman hid a grimace and left the room. Napoleon Solo ran an hesitant finger on the dressing.

"They're at bay, sir. They usually play to win but this was hopeless. They couldn't..."

Waverly banged his fist on the desk.

"They couldn't? They could have, Mr. Solo. We've been already presumptuously careless. We almost lost Mr. Kuryakin." He pointed an accusing finger at his agent. " Hadn't I required that you got bodyguards, we could have lost you today!"

Napoleon Solo knew better than to argue. He had almost rioted about the said bodyguards and the Old Man wouldn't miss out on it. Thrush had attacked him as he was leaving Del Floria's, breaking with kind of an unsaid rule. Of course he could have cope with this alone. Could he, really?

"But you're right." Waverly added flatly. "They look like to be at bay though I don't understand why. Our meeting... bothers them."

Napoleon nodded at his chief. Yes, the meeting bothered their enemy. They struggled to cause it to fail. Did they dread it? Why? He didn't know. Such a meeting could at least give them opportunities to get rid of the Uncle leaders ... provided that it took place. From this perspective, killing the CEA in charge of the organization...

Alexander Waverly cleared his throat. "Mr. Solo, you did spot the most interesting point, of course?" The Old Man had his Cheshire cat smile.

Yes, it had occurred to him. Were he their ace in the hole, Thrush wouldn't have tried to kill him. The attempt wasn't a fake. They had lost men who weren't the small fry. Nevertheless, this was strange.

"I ordered to keep the clinic under very conspicuous surveillance..."

"Mousehole..."

"Mr. Kuryakin is safe there, Mr. Solo."

Mousehole, the "safe harbor"... The huge wooden house with its terraces running around... Napoleon Solo smiled at the vivid memory. A place where people didn't lock their houses, where people didn't stick their nose into the others' business...

* * *

><p>Mikey observed the lake. The thought which had occurred to him was unpleasant. He wouldn't tackle his young friend about it, but...<p>

"I 'm safe here, Mikey."

The fisherman sighed. An amazingly powerful hand rested on his arm. He nodded, keeping silent for awhile. Finally he stated softly.

"Mr.'s Waverly's plan is very clever. Yes, you're safe here... as long as your enemies believe you're at this clinic."

The Russian didn't miss the hesitation.

"Very few people know about Mousehole, Mikey."

The fisherman bit his lips. The Russian insisted.

"Mikey?"

The man leaned against the stone wall.

"You have to know that Mr. Waverly told me about what happened on the island, Illya."

The Russian's face darkened slightly. "And?"

"Napoleon knows... No, listen to me. He's your friend. You're... close. He cares deeply about you, I know that." The grip on his arm was slightly released. "And you care about him, too. But..." He hesitated. Napoleon almost killed you."

"Almost!"

Illya Kuryakin had cracked the word, which didn't impress the fisherman.

"He shot you."

"He missed me."

"You dodged the bullet but you were wounded."

"Mikey." The hand took again a grip on his arm. "Look at me."

The blue eyes stared at him very seriously.

"He could have finished me off. We were alone and he could have. He didn't. He... I trust Napoleon, Mikey. Whatever happened, finally, he didn't kill me." The Russian smiled. "He would never have. I trust him, take my word for it."

The sunset colors set the sky and the lake ablaze.

"You know, Mikey, I tried once to kill Napoleon. Our enemy had conditioned me to do so. He managed to get me back. I trust him as he trusts me. He..."

Illya Kuryakin stopped as he noticed a change in the fisherman's expression. The green eyes were twinkling and the ghost of a smile was hovering on his lips.


End file.
